Frail
by lucerito-del-alma
Summary: She tops off his glass; they’re not likely to get through this conversation without the proper fuel. It’s suddenly clear all her efforts were never enough. He wishes she were more giving, more delicate. He's never noticed she tries.


**Disclaimer:** All characters, spells and magical objects in this story belong to J.K. Rowling. The single citation belongs to Virginia Woolf. And the spark that started it and the feeling to keep it going were given by the wonderful Raven 55.

**Author's Note:** Raven 55 challenged me to work a quote by Virginia Woolf into a story. A quote which had Bellatrix written all over it. But while I was writing it, this story took me somewhere I had not expected. This story is placed in the pre-Azkaban period, and looks at Bellatrix and Rodolphus' relationship from an angle I'd never attempted before. I really hope you enjoy it.

**Frail**

It's dark in the apartment. She walks in, throws her cloak over the couch, pockets her wand and walks over to the bar. She mutters a spell and a faint light spreads across this area of the room. The semidarkness soothes her. Bright lights would only bring an unnecessary awareness of reality.

She turns to inspect the shelves, scouring over the contents, and finally pulls down the fire-whiskey with a pleased smile. Taking a glass from the next shelf she begins looking for the charmed ice she knows they keep somewhere near that shelf.

"You could have told me, you were going to work late, you know?" his voice resounds suddenly from behind her, "saved me the trouble of waiting for you for dinner."

Startled but refusing to turn around, she settles for assuming he is sitting in the living room, in the armchair that looks out onto the balcony, his back to her. That is the only way she wouldn't see him when she came in.

"I…" she starts unsurely, frankly rather put off that her moment of solitude is destroyed. As her eyes fall on the box with ice cubes, however, relief creeps over her and she recovers her speech. "How was I supposed to know you were home anyway?" she retorts. It is hardly an excuse, and far from an apology. Worst of all it's not even true.

"Look," she confesses, "Frankly, I didn't have time to waste on that."

She turns around in time to see him slowly rising out of the armchair, heaving a deep sigh. He shakes his head ruefully as their eyes meet. "Your sweet, soft manner is always so refreshing," he berates her sarcastically.

She shakes her head in return, already tired of the upcoming argument, and pours herself a drink. "_I need not flatter any man,_" she recites absently, walking over to the dinner table, "_he has nothing to give me."_

For a moment, the soft tap of his footsteps as he walks over to the bar is the only sound filling the room. He pours himself a whiskey and then turns to face her, leaning on the bar counter, "Virginia Woolf, Bella?" he asks, laughing softly. "Leave it to you to use the words of an embittered muggle to describe our marriage"

She raises her eyes to meet his, a wry smile gracing her lips, "Yet it's excruciatingly appropriate, wouldn't you say?"

She takes another sip as he sighs and stares into the bottom of his glass. His eyes are filled with something more than the usual exasperation tonight, but she refuses to delve into that unexplored depth. She is tired; all she wants is some peace within the walls of her own house.

"Point taken," he concedes softly, "but you must agree you are hardly one to talk of having goods on offer, my dear." His tone changes abruptly, and the endearment is laced with a faint disdain she is sure she has never heard from his lips before. "After all, your shortcomings as a wife begin from the moment I set foot through our front door."

As the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end she's forced to admit he hit a nerve. She grips her drink firmly to keep her volume in check. "I am aware that I am not like my sister, Rodolphus," she says, "not like my mother, or like yours, or like any of those perfect little wives in our circle." She gulps down most of her glass, as if what she's going to tell him next is some kind of confession, as if he doesn't already know. "I have never aspired to be like them. Marriage was never the fulfilment of my life's aspirations; I did not marry you to be your quiet rock or the mother of your children."

"No," he agrees curtly, "you married me to finally escape your father. You married me to get some semblance of freedom."

As his words register, she can barely contain the soft growl that threatens to escape her throat and she taps her glass none-too-gently against the table surface. He wants to analyse her, does he? Pretend to understand her motivations, will he? Presumptuous bastard!

He walks toward her slowly, circling her like some fierce animal he wishes to shoot down. "You used me, Bella," he growls out. This accusation holds a strange finality, as if it were a statement, something he realised long ago, but has finally accepted. She can practically feel his furious breathing on the back of her neck.

Somehow, it gives her an inexplicable urge to defend herself. To talk about the feelings she did have not so long ago, to remind him of what they had, and so easily lost. But she won't give him the satisfaction. He should know the woman he is playing with by now.

She is by far his superior at these games.

"Yes," she hisses acidly. "I did use you. In fact, I'm still using you, and we've both known it all along!" she pauses to finish the rest of her whiskey, and to fix her sardonic smile on him, "The pathetic part is that you just lay back and let me."

A wounded silence befalls them, and his forcibly controlled breathing is an echo of her victory. But how low have they fallen that his suffering is a sweet melody to her ears?

His hands suddenly slam onto the back of her chair. "Shall I stop then, Bellatrix?" he demands. "Shall I treat you according to your true worth and set you on the streets? Shall I expose you as the whore that you are and be done with you?"

The crash of her chair hitting the floor resounds through the room as she stands abruptly and wheels around to face him. "I am many things, Rodolphus," she growls, "but to be your whore I would actually have to share your bed, wouldn't I? A whore would not risk losing her station with what you so delicately call frigidity!"

To her surprise, his face lights up with an embittered but infuriatingly condescending smile. "Touché, my darling wife," he concedes, his smirk firmly in place. "You did make a rather stunning transition from bedroom accessory to a decoration meant only for social events… and that only in scarce cases."

Oh, how she hates him. How she despises every fibre in his being for knowing just which buttons to push. It is low to drag her sister into this, to remind her of the delicate little thing she most definitely is not. He is mocking her, taunting her with what she could not be even if she wanted to try. Rage blinds her and blocks out any efficient retort. With her jaws firmly clenched, she reaches for her wand, considering her options.

"Come now," he interrupts her violent musings, pulling out his own wand in a manner that is far too nonchalant. "Surely we can settle this like adults, Bella," he offers, placing his wand on the table. "You cannot possibly have developed an inexplicable violent passion this far into the game."

Every nerve of her body stands on end at the drawl in his voice, at the viciousness of his words, but she slams her wand on the table and storms past him in direction of the bar. It's meant to buy her time to gain some semblance of self control. But the bottle shakes in her hand as she tries to pour herself a new drink and she puts it back down.

She takes deep breaths to collect herself. Deep, even breaths.

But when she turns to face him she finds she still can't meet his gaze. So she prefers to look past him, out onto the cityscape. The tiny little lights are soothing, they remind her that there is a great world out there to know and to conquer, that these menial household issues are just that: menial.

But she can't deny she's still shaking lightly, her muscles tightly sprung. She turns back to the bar, to attempt to pour her drink again. "How did we end up here, Rodolphus?" she sighs, not turning back to face him. "How did we get so old and bitter before even reaching 30?"

He doesn't answer, and when she turns to look at him she sees he looks taken aback. She summons his glass, and tops it off for him. They're not likely to get through this conversation without the proper fuel. "I mean, not all marriages can be like this, can they?" she continues. "Surely my parents cannot have lived together this long with such a genuine and permanent desire to hurt or even kill each other."

He lets out a soft, bitter laugh. "No," he agrees "I doubt there would be any society in this world that would survive if all houses functioned like this one…"

She can't help but feel slightly amused at it all as she hands him his drink. As she takes a seat, she raises her glass half-heartedly. "Here's to our being dysfunctional then!"

To her surprise, he flashes a bemused grin as he sits down and softly mumbles "cheers". It seems like a truce of sorts, if only because neither knows what to say.

But with each second of silence unrest settles over them again.

"I can't be _her_, you know?" she tells him softly, eyes fixed on the ceiling, "I just can't."

"Narcissa?" he asks, surprise in his voice. She can feel him staring at her and can imagine the way he turns his head, as if looking at her from a different angle will give him more insight on her thoughts. "Am I to take it you've tried?"

Bellatrix swallows a scream of frustration. He means well, it's a question asked out of genuine curiosity… but he just doesn't even realise the effect of what he says. He doesn't realise how his blindness to her efforts stings. So she keeps staring at the ceiling, so he won't realise what he can do. "Believe it or not," she says, "I do know that the way we treat each other can't possibly be right-" she pauses, unsure, "it's just…"

He gives her time, only giving a gentle, curious nudge, "just?"

She forces down the urge to scream, her frustration is just as much with herself as it is with him. "I can't" she states again, this time looking down to catch his eye. "I just can't be any different! I don't have the time, the will, least of all the ability to. I don't do feelings, Rodolphus," she pleads, "I thought you knew that, at least."

His silence and penetrating stare knock her off her already tethering emotional footing.

"And I can't just settle into a simple life of comforts!" she continues, brushing hair out of her face, simply to do something with her hands. "I have ambitions, aspirations far beyond that! I want to achieve something, to be part of the bigger picture!" As she says this, a realisation hits her. "They're not even things so different from what you want," she shares, "A worthwhile, exhilarating life and a companion on the side."

It's Rodolphus' turn to look frustrated. He takes a large gulp of his drink before starting. "That does sound like what I want, yes," he agrees. "… And yet," he puts his glass down forcibly, looking flustered. "Look, I'm not asking you to be Narcissa. When we married your own ambitions were exactly what I valued in you. You are your own woman; I did not have to mould you-" His vehemence fades as he clearly struggles for words.

"Then what changed?" She asks, "It hasn't even been ten years, I can't be that different."

"I…" he attempts, getting up and gesturing at her, "You…"

He begins to pace almost frantically, trying to order his thoughts. And then he stops as abruptly as he began. "You've stopped giving." He says, as though only realising it himself. He steps toward her with an unexpected calm, acting more out of sadness than of anger. "You're so consumed by the "exhilarating life" that it's damned difficult to believe you actually want a companion."

It takes a moment for his words to sink in. They are unexpectedly vulnerable, honest, and hurt. She didn't even know he had this side.

He sits down, putting his head in his hands, and sighs deeply. "It's not an accusation, Bella," he mutters, "I'm not calling you frigid; I'm not saying it's neglect. I tend to get carried away and lost in work myself." He pauses, looking her straight in the eye, "But it can't be such a difficult task to remember a wedding anniversary, can it?"

Her eyes widen as a quick mental calculation confirms his words. The 23rd; and she simply forgot. "Merlin," she whispers. That's why he waited for dinner.

It hits her that she really is not like Cissa. If anything, at Malfoy Manor the roles are reversed and it's her sister that suffers from her husband's negligence. "Rodolphus, I-"

"No, Bella," he stops her, staring at her detachedly, "you had a different priority, that's all there is to it." The tone isn't angry but she can hear the bitterness underneath, "I don't want excuses, what do they solve?"

For a moment she remains silent, shocked at his genuine pain. It's more than just forgetting the anniversary, she realises. She has hardly been home at all, lately. It's been months since she's shown any interest in him.

"I'm… sorry," she whispers, unable to think of something better to say.

He just keeps staring at her, impassive. His silence is a much greater accusation than anything he has said before, and it's impenetrable and unforgiving.

But suddenly it starts to bother her, his righteousness. The problem is a lot older and runs a lot deeper than he claims. Her actions had their origin within the marriage; every action was to counter a previous one. It takes two to do something like that.

She tries to penetrate his gaze, provoke a reaction or at least break through the anger that settled in his eyes. He doesn't stir.

"Listen to me!" She snaps furiously, leaning in towards him. "I am sorry," she emphasises, but then pauses, unsure of how to continue.

He looks at her sceptically. "…But?" he asks, as though finishing her sentence.

"But you don't get to do this!" she exclaims furiously, standing up. His continual role of victim is infuriating. "Trust me, I know there is no excuse for forgetting our anniversary, but you cannot make this all my fault! We've been falling apart a lot longer than today, and I'm not the only one causing it."

"But you're not thinking of any solutions either!" he explodes.

It's like a blow to the chest; she's left winded and scared. All this time, all the efforts she made, it's suddenly clear it was never enough. He never noticed. This new feeling of inadequacy pierces through something deep inside her.

"I do try," she pleads, her voice small.

Their gazes meet, and his becomes fixed on those big, open eyes. On that wounded stare. She holds her breath, as his face washes over with an expression she can't quite read.

His gaze is suddenly soft and tender. Understanding and forgiving. Asking to be forgiven. He stands up slowly, carefully. As if she were something delicate, fragile and valuable.

But as he moves his hand slowly towards her, a burning pain on their forearms brings in a gust of reality. The Dark Lord needs them. She casts her eyes down; they have no choice but to place their lives second.

The soft, sudden touch of a finger under her chin startles her, and she looks up into his eyes again. He is smiling, sadly, but smiling nonetheless, as he brushes his thumb gently across her cheek, wiping away an invisible tear.

She returns his smile, leaning into the hand ever so slightly.

Rodolphus drops his hand slowly, reaching for the wands on the table. Their eyes remain locked, their breaths held as his fingers brush hers when he returns her wand.

Then, without another word, they disapparate. The apartment is left in the dark


End file.
